


Submission

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Masochism, Mind Control, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Chrollo blinks, slow and deliberate like a cat indicating its trust; that blink flushes over Shal’s skin like a breath of heat blowing over chilled flesh." Chrollo invites and Shal accepts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Submission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shonenshamecube](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shonenshamecube).



It’s dark when Shal eases the door to Chrollo’s bedroom open. The hallway is too dark for him to see -- even with perfect night vision, the best he can make out are vague unformed shapes just in his periphery -- but that’s okay. The blond has walked the space more than enough to remember where things are; what good are his other senses if he has to rely on vision all the time, after all? So he can make his way down the hall on silent feet, gently work the door open with no sound he can hear until he can slide out of the pitch-black hallway and into the faint lighting of the room itself.

It doesn’t make a difference. Maybe it was the shift of air from the opening door or the sound of Shal’s breathing. Maybe it’s just whatever hyper-sensitive awareness has kept Chrollo alive in his line of work. Whatever it is, the other man is awake when Shal turns back around from shutting the door, sitting up in bed and staring at the blond with eyes so dark they could be infinite even though Shal knows that’s unreasonable. Shal is good at observing his surroundings and very good at watching  _what_  people do -- he has to be, to be as skilled with his  _Nen_  as he is. But Chrollo sees right into people; when he looks at Shal he looks through the blond’s skin and blood and bone, down into the space underneath everything, the void that Shal usually skates over without thinking much about it. Sometimes when Chrollo looks at him long enough Shal starts to feel like there might be something  _there_ , after all.

Shal doesn’t retreat. Chrollo knew he was coming in, anyway; he just always tries to be quiet. Someday he wants to catch Chrollo sleeping, just to see how he looks. But it’s not today, if it will ever happen at all, so he comes across the floor to where Chrollo is sitting unmoving but for those huge dark eyes fixed on Shal’s face.

“Hey,” he offers when he’s close enough for his whisper to be heard.

“Mm,” Chrollo hums by way of response. Then he blinks, slow and deliberate like a cat indicating its trust; that blink flushes over Shal’s skin like a breath of heat blowing over chilled flesh. The blond blinks, less deliberate than Chrollo’s overt expression, and Chrollo looks away, tips his head away and angles his neck just so. It’s a tiny motion, minimal enough that not even all the Troupe members would see it, but Shal does, and Chrollo knows that Shal will. That makes it a submission, an invitation and an extension of trust all at the same time.

Shal doesn’t insult the offer by asking if Chrollo’s sure. Chrollo is absolutely sure in everything he does, after all. Shal’s never seen him so much as bat an eye at any of the Troupe’s actions; once Chrollo determines to commit to something, he sees it through to the end. But they have an agreement, so Shal starts talking while he reaches for the needle-tipped antenna tucked away in his belt.

“I want to pin you down to the floor,” he says, still in that low undertone so the sound won’t carry beyond their ears. “I want to watch your eyes glaze over and then move you down to the floor, face-down so I can see your shoulders when I pin your arms back behind you, hard enough to hurt but not enough to break anything.” He slides a finger down the side of the needle, the habit of checking the sharpness so ingrained he does it now though he knows it’s unnecessary. “I want to shove you down against the floor so it tears against your chest and bruises your cheek and your nose starts bleeding, and I want you to suck me off while your mouth is full of your own blood.” He reaches out with his free hand to stroke his fingers over the inch of moonlight-pale skin under Chrollo’s ear. The other man doesn’t pull away, and doesn’t speak, and doesn’t blink.

“I want to scratch patterns into your back and against your hip with my fingernails,” Shal goes on, “And I want to bite teeth marks into your neck while I jerk you off and then I want you to come while I’m not touching you at all.”

That gets a reaction. Shal knew it would. Chrollo still doesn’t speak but he does blink, finally, a flutter of feathery lashes in Shal’s shadowed periphery. And Shal doesn’t have to ask if it’s okay before Chrollo angles his neck, farther now, far enough that it’s an offering instead of just an invitation, and Chrollo doesn’t have to wait before Shal brings his other hand up in the smooth practiced arc with just enough force to sink the needle in his fingers past Chrollo’s skin.

It’s always a bit of a surprise how easily it goes in. Shal knows perfectly well that Chrollo is mortal like the rest of them, that his skin will bruise and break just like anyone’s, but there’s some irrational portion of his brain that insists that the porcelain flesh with simply refuse to give under the pressure, that Shal’s needle will skid away or shatter on impact. But it slides in just like it always does, just like it does for anyone, and Shal lets out a breath he held for a moment too long as the depth to Chrollo’s eyes goes so shallow Shal can see the change even in the dark.

“You’re out, aren’t you?” Shal knows he is, doesn’t need the reassurance he won’t get, but it’s always interesting to see the lack of response in Chrollo’s eyes, the way the other doesn’t blink or turn his head to track the blond’s movements. “Good.”

He could make Chrollo lie down on the floor himself, could even make the other man do so with enough force to bruise. But there’s a visceral satisfaction in grabbing the back of the older man’s neck, shoving him down and feeling his balance reflex fail to kick in so he goes crashing into the floor. With the pin in Chrollo’s neck Shal can feel the impact ghost over his own nerve endings, an echo of the bruising starting to rise against the other man’s elbow and along his ribcage as he skids over the floor. It doesn’t hurt at the remove he is from the other’s pain; it’s more like a memory of pain, or someone tracing over his skin while talking about getting hurt. He can feel it better when he stands up, like the pressure of his clothes is drawing the sensation in closer around him, and he can feel it even better when he steps against Chrollo’s bare shoulders, presses down with his foot to crush the other against the floor.

“We’re getting there,” he says as he shifts his weight so he can kneel against Chrollo’s back instead of standing on him. Chrollo doesn’t answer, of course, but he can still hear, whatever part of Chrollo that gets to watch and feel what Shal is doing to his pliant body can catch the blond’s words, so Shal keeps talking. “Arms, next.”

It’s Shal moving the remote that brings Chrollo’s arms up behind his back, the other man impossibly and perfectly obedient even as Shal shifts his weight, grinds the burn of friction against the other’s skin as he pushes him into the floor. With no resistance Shal can take Chrollo’s arm with one hand, twist it up and back until he can feel the reflexive tension in the other’s body in response, both under the force of his hand and in the ghostly overlay across his own body.

“Does this hurt yet?” he asks rhetorically before he pushes up higher, another inch, until he can almost hear the protest in the join and even under his control Chrollo’s breathing starts to go ragged with pain. It must be flashing hurt for the other, but for Shal it’s just warmth, a distant fire instead of a burn. He knows exactly how far he can bend Chrollo’s arm even without the feedback from the control’s connection; by the time he lets go, he’s held the other man right at the verge of too much for long enough that the joint will ache for hours, maybe a day, lingering evidence of this moment as much as the bruises Shal can feel rising into visibility under Chrollo’s skin.

“There, that’s part of it,” he goes on, pleasant and friendly as he wraps his fingers in against the back of Chrollo’s head. “Now for the next part of the game.”

He doesn’t break Chrollo’s nose against the floor -- that takes much more force than he uses, probably would need a knee to the back of the other’s head instead of just the shove of his hand. But it’s enough to break the delicate bloodvessels, enough that when Shal gets to his feet and brings Chrollo up to his knees there’s a wave of red coloring his face dark in the faint light. Even then there’s no expression in Chrollo’s eyes -- they’re still flat, unblinking and unfocused, perfectly submissive even with evidence of the damage Shal has inflicting trickling down over Chrollo’s skin.

“Perfect,” Shal says. “Open your mouth.”

It’s not like Chrollo is the one who decides to do that -- it’s Shal, maneuvering the remote nearly unconsciously as he gets his pants open -- but it helps to maintain the illusion for his own purposes. It’s fun to imagine what it’s like for Chrollo, too -- watching from the backseat of his own mind, having the intimation of what it to come with absolutely no control over what happens next or not. It must be terrifying, or at least Shal imagines it must be. But Chrollo’s going hard, from what the blond can see, and Shal hasn’t  _told_  him to yet, which means that the other man’s reflexes are still in control of that particular reaction.

Shal reaches out to hook his thumb into Chrollo’s mouth, presses in against the other man’s tongue to pull his mouth open. “Good boy,” he purrs, and Chrollo doesn’t shake and doesn’t blink and doesn’t respond, but Shal can see his dick twitch straight through his pants even before the blond lets him go to grab a handful of dark hair and pull Chrollo’s mouth forward around him.

It’s not actually all that great, as far as blowjobs go. Chrollo’s lack of conscious control means that whatever movement he makes is ultimately Shal’s doing, and some of Shal’s inherent skill with his remote evaporates with the warmth of Chrollo’s mouth so his motions are less fluid than they are otherwise. But there is a thrill to Chrollo’s passivity in this as in everything else, and the borrowed sensation means Shal can almost feel his length shifting over his own tongue, feels just a hint of metallic burn at the back of his throat like he’s tasting an echo of the blood from Chrollo’s nose. And in the end the psychological rush is as heady as the physical pleasure, more and better as it always is, because in the end a body is just a body, just like Chrollo is just a body when he’s like this, and it is the mind that makes the connections. It’s in Shal’s mind that the echo of sensation he feels becomes another connection, a way to climb inside Chrollo’s skin directly, to feel what he feels even as he’s experiencing it. It’s inside Shal’s thoughts that there is anything staring up at him beyond shallow dark eyes, in his own imagination that he can see  _actual_  Chrollo watching him while bound more thoroughly than ropes or gags ever could manage. And it’s Shal’s mind that pulls up an image of Chrollo-as-Chrollo, composure and elegance and leadership incarnate, to overlay with the submissive doll on its knees with Shal’s cock down its throat, and it’s Shal’s own sense of that juxtaposition that pulls pleasure tight and promising under his skin, that brings him up over the edge and gasping Chrollo’s name as he comes into the other’s mouth.

It’s easy to steer Chrollo’s head back even without the remote; the older man doesn’t swallow until Shal pushes at the remote control, and when he does the burn of mingled come and blood is so strong that Shal wrinkles his nose in distaste at just the echo.

“Your turn,” he says, lets Chrollo’s head go and steers the other man to his feet. Chrollo’s legs obey when Shal tells them to walk to the wall, Chrollo’s hands flatten themselves just where Shal wants them. He stays perfectly still while Shal pulls his clothes free, the only sound the faint damp of his breathing from the lingering blood in his mouth. It’s cool enough in the room that Shal is grateful for his own clothing, that he can feel Chrollo’s skin rising into goosebumps as he strips the other man down, but even when the reflexive shivers start Chrollo’s erection doesn’t so much as waver.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Shal states rather than asks. He’s still down on one knee from sliding Chrollo’s clothes free from the other’s skin; it’s barely moving at all to set his mouth in against the other’s hip to press a kiss into the chilled skin. He’s got the remote in one hand, though he doesn’t need it at the moment; that leaves his other hand free so he can reach up and set his fingernails against Chrollo’s spine, trace out the curve of it in red welts under an excess of pressure. He’s at the perfect eye level to see the twitch of response this gets although Chrollo is still breathing relatively slowly; it’s not until he gets to his feet and leans in against the other’s back that he can feel the pace of those damp inhales pick up a notch.

“Are you ready to come?” Shal asks. The words, and the cheer under them, are out of context against the knee he digs in against Chrollo’s leg with enough force that the other man’s balance dips and he almost falls. Shal shoves him up against the wall by angling his shoulders in against Chrollo’s, reaches around to close his free hand around the other man’s cock. “I could just tell you to and you would, without me doing anything at all.” He’s done it before, after all, more than once; there is a real amusement to be gained in watching Chrollo go from perfectly calm to shuddering in the throes of orgasm within a handful of seconds and without being touched. But he has told Chrollo what he’s going to do this time, he has received permission for very specific things, and he has to stick to them or this whole arrangement will cease to function. He knows this, and Chrollo knows this, so it’s an exercise in futility to even suggest anything different.

But it is fun, for the sake of the thought experiment and for the way Chrollo’s body is betraying his interest even when he has no conscious control over it at all. Shal can feel the rush of blood to the other’s cock, the pulse of pressure under his fingers in tune with his words instead of his motions, and he moves faster to compensate, brings the hand still steadying the remote around so he can grab at Chrollo’s hip and press crescent bruises into the flesh. “You’re entirely powerless like this. I can do whatever I want to you, play with you until I’m bored.” Shal pauses, sets his teeth in against the older man’s shoulder and bites, hard enough that there’s a smear of blood when he pulls back. Chrollo’s breathing is running jagged and desperate now, Shal can hear the catch of liquid on every inhale now. “It’s a game of trust every time. Isn’t it  _fun_?”

Shal lets his hold go on Chrollo entirely, grabs at the other’s hip so he’s bracing the older man steady, and says, “Now” without bothering to specify what he’s talking about. Chrollo’s breath chokes into silence; his hands don’t move from their position on the wall, his feet don’t shift, but the reflexive jerk of orgasm that ripples through his body isn’t obedient to Shal’s needle, and the pleasure that washes through Chrollo’s veins is echoed across the connection into Shal’s, an afterglow of secondhand satisfaction. Shal waits until the last shivers of stolen pleasure have faded from his skin; then he reaches up, closes his fingers on the needle, and slides it free from Chrollo’s skin.

The older man’s knees go as soon as the required obedience of the needle is gone. He slumps forward against the wall in spite of Shal’s hand lingering at his waist, and the blond follows him down, takes a knee so he can reach for the other’s shoulder and turn him around.

“How are you?” he ask, like he always asks, just after.

Chrollo’s eyes are wide and endless once again, pitch-black and infinite as the night, composed and inscrutable even with the drying blood still coating his skin. He blinks and nods in silent reassurance; Shal smiles, and leans in to kiss the split in Chrollo’s lower lip, and when the other man shifts and pushes back to return the kiss, he knows everything is okay.


End file.
